


Shándrika and the Serpent's Dance

by kaoticwords, Lusewen (kaoticwords)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dancing, F/M, India, Mysterious Dancers and Young Writers, Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaoticwords/pseuds/kaoticwords, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaoticwords/pseuds/Lusewen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Shándrika</em>. That's what they called her. She beheld me and her eyes pierced my soul. And the few secrets and memories until then collected, were mine no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shándrika and the Serpent's Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Short tale for the contest _Danza Digital_ of the magazine [Zaragoza en Danza](http://revistazaragozaendanza.blogspot.com/), where it was originally published in Spanish in October of 2010. My original idea was quite longer but rules are rules and so I had to cut it.
> 
>    
> Shándrika and her tale are a product of my imagination; I hope good old Kipling doesn't mind being the narrator of the tale.

It's been quite a long time since the tale I'm about to tell you took place. Longer in fact that both your ages together, my dearest grandchildren, but when one has my age and has lived and written as much as I've done, one feels the need to throw his memories to the wind, since memories, unlike dust, can bloom and become immortal, if they find fertile soil.

It was 1883 when my father sent me off for the first time to the captivating city of Shimla, to the North of India -yes, the same Shimla that so many times I mentioned in my stories. I was only eighteen, then. I had my whole life ahead of me and the sheer desire of writing. Rudyard Kipling. Others there were who thought it unsuitable a name for a writer. Though I lacked in experience and I'd still have to wait some months for the humble opportunity to gain it. But I digress... What I really want to confess you is the reason of my fascination for Shimla. As I was saying, it was the summer of 1883 when my father was commissioned to paint the frescos of the main church in Shimla and I had no choice but to follow him. It chanced then that in those shrouded midsummer nights of oppressive heat and dampness, a circus from the Far East arrive to the place. A traveling show of fakirs, acrobats and fire. And one enchantress -or that's what morning whispers said between the market's stalls.

She was beautiful, with an almost painful grace and a waterfall of dark waves which fell endlessly over her shoulders. Her skin, light sweet cinnamon, left speechless whomever beheld her. And speechless, too, she presented herself before her audience for she just looked from her two nocturnal voids and danced. Ancestral foreign signs embraced her arms and surrounded her hands, which to the music's sound were hands no more but flowing water. She danced far dances that smelled of desert and ocean. And when she glanced, she bewitched those who held her gaze. She moved to the sound of kettledrums and flutes and her beauty rendered everyone mute with worship, fear and desire. Many of them swore they saw a swaying serpent. Some of them said she was Kali, dancing over Death. Just a few knew that some men never returned home after watching her dance. But truth is that every night after the show she was escorted back to her cage of golden bars wrapped in silks. She walked with arrogance and pride, not matter how scarce her clothes were, for she knew the fear she inspired in all.

Twice I saw her dance. The first time by chance; the second one, enchanted, the same night the circus vanished off. I glimpsed her before, in her silky aromatic cage and so broken was my heart that, prey of my youth, I tried to free her. But poorly skilled was my exploit when I was invited to leave with a dagger's tip to my throat. Shándrika. That's what they called her. She beheld me and her eyes pierced my soul. And the few secrets and memories until then collected, were mine no more.

That night before her show she whispered some words in a language no one remembers now. She smiled a secret smile and danced. She swayed like the serpent on the desert's sand under the moonlight. That night no one survived, apart from this old and grey grandpa of yours.

"Your heart is pure", she told me after a kiss. "Of the many men who once beheld me, only you didn't want me for yourself. You are the only one who dared to set me free. Fortune will follow you from now on and so will I."

And truth is I never saw her again but successful, that I was.


End file.
